


I hate you, I love you

by lolneptune



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:28:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22430335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolneptune/pseuds/lolneptune
Summary: Harry and Draco make a pros and cons list of sorts.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 3
Kudos: 67





	I hate you, I love you

**Author's Note:**

> I've been putting off schoolwork and decided to do a bit of a character study. This is loosely derivative of that scene in Marriage Story with the lists from couple's therapy -- "What I love about xxx". I love these two, and I love to imagine what they'd have to say about one another. Enjoy.

**What drives me mad:**

He’s stubborn. He won’t ever do something if he doesn’t want to.

He doesn’t say “I love you” enough, seldom tells me how he feels, or if he’s upset. I have to pry it out of him, and then he’s miffed at me for caring. 

He bottles things up -- then explodes. 

He’s messy, and forgetful, and doesn’t care about rules. He shows up late to dinner and leaves socks in the bed sheets, kicks wet towels into the corner after showering. The sink clogs frequently with his hair. The first time I left our flat for a weekend I returned to the permeating smell of takeout and wet dog; there were couch cushions astray, newspapers and work folders obscuring the coffee table, dog toys grouted with peanut butter dotting the carved Thai teak dining room set. Don’t even get me started on the bedroom.

He’s too impersonal. If I tell him about a fight I’m having with my mother, or a hard day at work, he tries to problem-solve everything. He doesn’t understand that sometimes a bloke just needs to vent. 

He’s a bad listener. Sometimes it’s cute; sometimes I want to snap my fingers in his face until he pays attention to me. (Which, I often do.)

Relatedly: he sometimes seems to only hear what he wants to. Or only the worst bits -- it’s like he’s programmed to angst.

He’s a wretched host. We can’t get through a single bloody dinner party without him becoming grumpy and bored or, worse, stubbornly political. It ruins everybody’s appetite and makes us look like a pair of uncultured brutes.

He cannot dress or groom himself for the life of him. Honestly, he’s lucky to have me -- not that he can stand still long enough for me to fix that bloody mess of hair.

He broods like a toddler and snaps at people when he’s upset. 

He’s too cynical; sometimes he’s downright cold. 

He’s stuck in his ways. I try to teach him table manners, how to dress, how to treat his hair. Nothing sticks. He gets frustrated. It’s like herding cats. 

He gets jealous too easily. He never says as much, of course -- not unless he’s in a right state -- but I can see it in the flush of his cheeks, his tense jaw. As though I’d ever leave him.

**What I love:**

He’s brave. Alright, that’s obvious -- bloody saviour of the wizarding world we’re talking about here -- but it’s the little things I love. Like: he catches bugs in the house with his bare hands, lets them out through an open window. He argues with solicitors on the phone for me. He pulls disgusting gunk from a clogged drain without batting an eye. Merlin am I grateful for that.

He’s fair. When Hugo and Rose spend the evening, he makes a point of treating them equally. He gives them two pillows each. He brings them both a cup of cocoa before bed. If Rose domineers the conversation, he asks Hugo what he thinks. He tells them both that they could do anything they want -- anything at all. That they’re both brilliant and wonderful children. That he’s so proud of them both. 

He turns me on. I don’t even mean sexually, but I’ll get to that -- what I mean is he brings out the color in me, makes me livid, makes me work for it, makes me alive. He challenges me. 

He makes me laugh. He’s witty, and clever, but it’s understated -- you wouldn’t guess it, he’s so quiet most of the time. It’s disarming.

He takes care of me. He takes the puppy for walks, fixes leaks and changes lightbulbs, cooks for me. 

He’s a wonderful cook. I worried, when we first started dating, that he cooked because he felt that he had to, that he would grow to resent me as he did the Dursleys. But he told me once, in that quiet way of his, that it’s different with me. I think he fancies himself an apprentice Molly Weasley -- she sends him cookbooks, tips, cuttings from her garden, and he invites her for dinner to show off his progress. 

He stares at me constantly -- in public, even: across the room at parties, standing next to me on the Tube, when we’re out buying groceries. I admonish him, tell him it’s crude and obvious, but we both know how much I like it. 

He’s genuine. I don’t say it enough, but I admire him for that. He doesn’t give a damn what others think of him -- it’s both infuriating and completely sexy. 

God. The sex. I could say a hundred things about the sex alone. I love his body. I love how he makes me feel. I love that he watches me, leaves marks, holds me too tight -- like he’s laying claim to my skin. It makes no difference; I’ve been his since the day I met him.

* * *

**What drives me mad:**

He’s stubborn. It took him ages to apologize to Ron and Hermione, longer to make his rounds to the rest of the Weasleys, to Neville, Luna, the lot of them -- God, we had to wait months after we’d began hooking up to say anything, because he was still on bad terms with all my friends and wouldn’t deign to fucking apologize.

He’s too sensitive, can’t take criticism. He doesn’t understand when I’m trying to help -- and then when he finally takes my advice, and it works, he won’t climb off his high horse to admit I was right.

He can be overbearing. I appreciate how much he cares, but I need space sometimes. He takes that as a rejection. I wish he could see that I’m just not the same as him; I don’t need someone interrogating me about my feelings all the damn time. 

He’s a perfectionist. He has all these ideas about the future -- our future, his future, even  _ mine _ \-- wants to know what my plan is, where I’m going in life, if I remembered to brush my teeth. Oh yeah, and that reminds me:

He nags incessantly. I’m always doing something wrong -- my clothes are on the floor, my dishes aren’t in the sink, the trash needs to be taken out. He meddles in my life, too, asks me if I’ve any work I need to get finished before bed, if I’ve eaten enough, written Molly back, whatever -- as if I’m incapable of handling myself. Sometimes it’s sweet; other times it drives me absolutely mad.

He cares too much about appearances. He’s always throwing these elaborate dinner parties, trying to fix my hair, dress me up. He tells me to stop staring at him, says it’s rude, even though we both know how much he loves the attention. 

He’s vain. Beautiful, but vain. He has a product for everything: his hair, his face, his eyes, his nails, even his feet. Before we started seeing each other, my “routine” consisted of a bar of soap, 3-in-1 shampoo, and Gilette shaving cream. Now he’s got me using all sorts of products in my hair, insists that I slather an expensive-looking cream on my face every day and night. I can’t read the ingredient list on the soap he gave me; I think it’s Korean. Really, it’s all a bit over-the-top. He acts as though either one of us may run into the Queen while we’re out grocery shopping or picking up the mail. 

He’s a coward; that has never changed. I almost think, though, that it’s more self-preservation than it is weakness. He’s very clever. And I do think, sometimes, he has his priorities sorted out better than me: More than anything, he wants to be loved. 

**What I love:**

His hair. It’s so soft, and it smells like spice. God, it’s a shame he wore it in that severe slicked-back style at Hogwarts; I really think we could’ve saved ourselves a whole lot of trouble if I’d been too distracted by how fit he looked to bother starting a row (as I am these days). 

His skin. I guess it must be all that tinkering in the bathroom -- or maybe those famous Black genetics. Sex with him is like wrapping up in hot, wet silk… Noisy silk, that goes pink in the cheeks and babbles my name like a prayer. Not that I’m bragging.

His mouth. It says horrible things sometimes, but it’s also pink and pouty and frequently wet. His upper lip is just a little plumper than the bottom, and he knows I like how it looks, so he does this really cruel thing when we’re in public where he deliberately eats a little messy (it’s no accident -- his table manners are impeccable), swipes his thumb across a spot of food that missed its mark, and proceeds to suck it suggestively -- staring right at me, mind you, the dirty little tease -- into his mouth. For all he nags me about acting like a randy crup in public, he’s really the cruder one between us.

He’s a good story-teller. I mean, his impressions alone are enough to send the arsiest bureaucrat on the planet into a fit of giggles -- in fact, I’ve seen it. He’s a brilliant conversationalist, in general, really; I’m so grateful for it, because that means I can get away with letting him speak for me most of the time. I hate all those fundraisers, galas, whatever -- any event where I have to put on a face for strangers. Draco handles that stuff brilliantly. I’m so lucky to have him. 

He has good taste. I tease him about it, but I really do like the way he’s done up the flat. All those expensive, worldly pieces -- I know nothing about that sort of thing, but it looks really nice. And, I like that he takes me into account: He knows I like a cozier sort of home, so he had a magical fireplace installed, commissioned lovely quilts and cashmere throws for the living room. He even went to the trouble of tracking down and framing some photographs of my parents. He says I look more like my mum than anyone lets on.

He’s family-oriented. Not that I care much at all for Lucius Malfoy, but Narcissa can be downright pleasant sometimes, and I like to see Draco so happy with her. He’s even warmed up to the Weasley’s, I think. He’s good with kids; Hugo and Rose love the stories he tells them -- I watched Rose snort milk up her nose in a fit of laughter one night. And for all he complains about the shedding and the smell, he and the puppy are like peas in a pod. Sometimes the pair of them curl up like yin and yang on the sofa when Draco’s been working so late he passes out before he can make it to bed.

He believes in me. I don’t think I’d be where I am in my career right now if it weren’t for him pushing me to do better, to fight for that promotion. He’s always telling me to advocate for myself. I appreciate that. And the best part is that he really has faith in me, Harry, not the glorified “Saviour” -- though he’s never stopped teasing me about that. And I almost don’t want him to, at this point -- I like that he doesn’t take that whole thing seriously. I like that he sees me as I am. 


End file.
